


Inversion

by strititty



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Antagonistic Affection, Auto-Responder | Lil Hal and Dirk Strider are Twins, First Time, Foul Fucking Language, Gender Dysphoria, Human Auto-Responder | Lil Hal, Intersex Characters, M/M, Mom Hal and Dirk are fighting again, Nonbinary Character, Robo-prosthetics, Sex Dysphoria, Sibling Incest, Small Dicks as a Plot Point, Trans Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28482594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strititty/pseuds/strititty
Summary: That's the thing about Dirk and Hal. They've always been defined by one another.
Relationships: Auto-Responder | Lil Hal/Dirk Strider
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32
Collections: Stridercest Secret Santa





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LPSunnyBunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LPSunnyBunny/gifts).



> i've never written omegaverse before, but hopefully this came out alright! i had a lot of fun with it. enjoy! :D

It’s not that Dirk is better than you at robotics. You’re sure you could go blow to blow with him in any relevant competition. In fact, you’re sure you would _win._ You’re intimately aware of robo-tech, more so than he ever will be.

The problem lies in the irrefutable fact that you can’t do repairs on your own arm. In an emergency you could get things back in working order, but the whole thing’s really more of a two-handed job. It’s the same reason doctors don’t do surgery on themselves. Shit’s mad difficult, yo.

Also, painful. That too. It’s only by dint of how many times you’ve done this over the past five years of your life that you’re not wailing like a little baby. No, you keep your prosthetic arm firmly in place in front of Dirk and your meat arm firmly at your side, clenching and unclenching your fist to distract yourself from the pain that is routine maintenance. Some people, you’re told, get anaesthetized for this shit. Those people are asshole babies. 

“Almost done,” Dirk informs you.

“I’m aware.” Your voice is clipped. When he does this, you trend toward snappy, and not just because of the pain. You hate that he has to take care of you. Of course, when you told Roxy that, they pointed out that you don’t have to get it done by Dirk but you do it because ‘you love himmmm :) :)’.

Another tense few minutes, and then Dirk starts sliding panels shut. You withdraw your arm and flex your fingers. Your joints could probably use oiling, but it’s otherwise business as usual, complete with a soft metallic whir. The echoes of pain linger--that ache won’t go away for a few days. “Now the leg,” he says, gesturing toward it, tools in hand. 

“Don’t maim me,” you say, and then prop your leg up on the table.

Dirk rolls his eyes, something you can clearly see because he’s taken off his shades to do this work. You would have known anyway, because you’ve been twins for twenty-three years and that’s just how that shit works, but right now you can see it in real time. The fact that his eyes are golden orange as opposed to you and Bro’s bright red is just one of many differences between you. For once it’s a difference that makes _him_ the odd one out, though, and you’ve always taken that as a win.

“Have I ever?” 

“Statistically speaking, one day you just might. Could be today.”

“Statistically speaking, you’re full of shit.”

He slides open the panels on your legs (uncomfortable) and starts tweaking the wires that double as your nervous system inside (extremely painful). 

There’s another thing setting you on edge--a familiar scent in the air. You’ve known Dirk long enough to know what the beginnings of a rut smell like, all spiced and agitated. It annoys you to no end, and you prefer to avoid him at all costs when it hits in earnest. Your routine check-up has fallen on a most wretched day. 

You used to like egging him on when he got into the thick of it. It’s funny, how snappy he gets, how the control he tries so hard to hold onto fractures. 

After the one time he decided fisticuffs were fairplay, though, you’ve both called it quits. The experience was traumatic on both ends. You prefer not to think about it.

(You think about it a lot.)

Currently, you’re mostly thinking about how much your fucking leg hurts. 

Dirk is doing his best. It’s not his fault whatever work he does is vastly inferior to the work you would be doing in his position. He’s only meat.

Technically speaking, you’re mostly meat, too, but you’ve firmly crossed to the side of transhumanism. Your ostensibly ‘fake’ arm and leg are more powerful than your ‘real’ ones ever will be. The lack of full tactile sensation is a detriment, but hey. It’ll get there. You’ve got the feeling of muscles moving--enough to know how to actually work your limbs and how not to crush the things you hold. Something more subtle? Not so much. 

You know when things move _incorrectly,_ though, as evidenced by Dirk tap dancing on your wire nervous system and causing undue amounts of pain.

“It should all be fine,” you say, curt.

“‘Should’ is not the same as a definite, and I think we’d both prefer it if you didn’t suffer a malfunction in the middle of a work day.” 

He’s not wrong. “Is that an admission of care about my well-being? How very quaint of you, Dirk.”

“I’m a busy man,” he says, even as he can be. There’s a rough edge to it, undoubtedly because of the onset of rut. “I can’t fix up other clients if I’m working on _you_.”

“Ah, but see: now you’re putting me before other clientele.” Fucking with him is a very nice distraction from the pain right up until he tweaks a nerve on purpose and you hiss a quiet ‘ _fuck_ ’. “Dickweed.”

“Jackass.”

“Cocksuc--oh wait, you aren’t getting any right now.” Petty is your middle name.

Dirk scowls down at your leg and looks _this_ close to plucking another wire, so you shut up. 

Despite how snippy you are with each other, your brother does his job well. He makes sure all your wires are in order, that your joints are well-oiled, that everything’s nice and limber. Wire-work is unspeakably painful, and that pain will linger, but getting your joints worked… Well, you expect how that feels depends on the person. It’s something like a massage, oil and all, with a nerve-deep ache. There’s not a lot of surface-level sensation, but if you’re particularly imaginative, that can be another story.

When he slides the leg panels shut and gets to oiling your knee, you try not to be. It’s harder than usual with Dirk’s scent in the air. He’s so _familiar._ You’ve had his ruts in your face since you were teenagers and you have, for the most part, successfully ignored or manipulated them to your advantage. It helps that you’ve been on hormone blockers for the majority of that, so it never hits you quite as hard.

Still, with him working on your leg in a way that might be considered subservient, the beginnings of that _look and listen, fuckers, i’m on top_ scent rolling off of him… It does more for you than it probably ought to, considering your twin status. The Westermarck effect? Hah. The fuck is that?

(Conceptually speaking, the idea that you won’t be attracted to your family and their scents because of the fact that you’ve grown up together and repeatedly marked each other in nonsexual ways, but here you are.)

Yet another reason you’d rather not be around when his rut kicks in. 

You can at least be glad that the blockers have given you a sort of--well, the rest of your pack describes it as a ‘null’ scent. Not quite beta, not quite _nothing,_ just… hard to get a read on. Makes it hard to tell when you’re getting a stiffy from someone flexing your toes for you.

“Arm again,” Dirk says after a minute of massaging your robotoes. 

Your innate want not to be coddled by your shithead brother and vague arousal at him rubbing your feet duke it out for a second. Anti-coddling instinct wins out. “I can do my own arm, thanks.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’ve got better access, dude. You _just_ let me do your feet, and your arm is going to ache for days. Let me do it right.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I know perfectly well how to do it by myself. It’s attached to me.”

“Yeah, but you work in programming. Engineering’s my gig. I’ll do it better.”

Excuse the fuck out of him. “I can throw together a bot just as well as you. The fact that you assume otherwise is a testament to your all-consuming arrogance as a fellow human being, as ever.”

“Eat my ass, Hal. Stick with Roxy and your white hat hacking.”

“Something both of us are better at than you ever will be.”

“What is this, a dick-measuring contest? Can we just agree that both of us are equally as good at the things we do for work as the other?”

“That would imply that one of us _isn’t_ as good as the other outside of work, so no. We can’t agree unless you cede that I’m better than you in every respect.”

“Do you even listen to yourself? Half the time you’re just spewing narcissistic bullshit.”

“ _True_ narcissistic bullshit.”

Dirk makes a little ‘tch’ sound and starts putting his tools back in order, agitated. A spark of victory flares in your heart. He leaves the oil out for you to work your own joints in peace--you do so with practiced ease and end with the robotic equivalent of cracking your knuckles. When you’re done, you stand and test your leg. Hip, knee, ankle, toes. All fine. 

“You know where the door is. Try not to let it hit you on the way out,” he says, and then, “Say hi to Roxy for me.”

***

You don’t say hi to Roxy for him. If he wants to do that, he has their Pesterchum handle and he’s fully capable of using his meaty digits to work his phone or his squishy eyes to work his shades.

Nonetheless, when you enter their apartment, they greet you as per the norm--a hug and rubbing their cheek against yours. You might not be able to scent mark others properly, but your pack can sure drench you in theirs. Roxy drags you to the couch to sit and cuddle, which is also the norm. “Hal! What’s up, bb? How’d the check-up go?” 

“I’m dying,” you say, dryly. “Laid low. Beaten into the dust. Central nervous system infection. I’m never going to recover.”

They tweak your nose. “We’ll miss you!”

“Promise?”

“Most promised anyone’s ever promised!”

“Guess I’ll die in peace, then.” You pause. “Although I require Dirk to look upon my grave with something that somehow both forlorn sorrow and contemptuous exasperation that his skills weren’t competent enough to save me.”

Roxy stares blankly at you for a moment. “Soooo. You guys have another fight about work?”

“He thinks I’m not as good at engineering as him!” You’re only a touch defensive. 

“Babe. Baby. Honey. Sweetheart,” they say.

“Don’t say it.”

“You know I think you’re both super super good at techy stuff…”

“Rox. Roxy. Lalonde. Do not.”

“...but you work with me for a reason, y’know? You could totes be working with him! But I stole you! And stopped you from killing each other cuz you’d be workin’ in the same building and we both know you’d commit fratricide and it’d be super bad.”

You sigh deeply, as if all the air from your lungs has been pushed out by the force of their betrayal. It’s always easier to hear things from Roxy, though, even things you think are patently bullshit. In momentary petulant silence, you survey the apartment that doubles as your workspace 99% of the time. Sure, you _can_ work from your own apartment, but why would you when you can hang out with arguably the coolest member of your crew?

Except for instances like now, when they’re trying to tell you you’re not as good at what literally constitutes your arm and leg as your brother.

After that momentary silence, Roxy ventures, “Hal, you know you don’t gotta be better than him at everything. You two’re always angstin’ about your twin thing ‘n tryna one up each other and stuff that you forget you’re your own people.”

“How many times have you said that to me now?”

“I lost track back when we were like fifteen. How many times has it worked?”

“None at all.” 

It’s Roxy’s turn to sigh so deep you wonder about their lung capacity. “Yeah. _Yeah._ You’re still coming to movie night though, right?”

“What kind of heathen do you take me for? Of course I’m coming to movie night.” Something hits you, then, and you cluck your tongue. “Maybe not. Dirk’s going into rut. Who knows if he’ll be able to control himself. Don’t need another Strider v. Crocker blowout on our hands.”

“Oh noooo,” Roxy flops into you. “He’s usually good about it though! That thing with Janey was a fluke. She was really stressed about work and Dirk and Jake were--no, c’mon, don’t wrinkle your nose at me! That’s what happened! We were lucky Dave was there to break it up.”

“Don’t call him Dave. It’s weird.”

“It’d be weirder if I called him Bro! You don’t call my mom Mom!”

“At least I call her Miss Lalonde.”

“We’re all adults now, we don’t have to call them Miss and Mister! D’you want me to call him Brobro like when we were kids?”

“Yes. One hundred percent. Every part of me wants to see how he would react to that.”

They giggle into your side and all is forgiven. For now. “Kk! Noted!”

Hanging out with Roxy is always one of the high points of your day and/or night. Considering you work together, you have a lot of high points nowadays. Most of the time it feels like they’re the only one who really understands you. Sure, there’s Dirk, who knows you inside and out just as much as you know him--you know how to push each other’s buttons like no other on a scale that’s frankly monstrous.

The relationship between you and Roxy isn’t one born of antagonism, and that makes all the difference. When they offer you advice about how to handle your brother, it’s easier not to snap at them. Jane’s good for that too, you suppose, but Jane’s also an alpha with one of the most stereotypical jobs she could have, so. She just doesn’t _get_ you sometimes--and Christ forbid you ever take any sort of advice from Jake. 

Roxy, though. Roxy’s a wonderful creature who has helped you immeasurably over the years of friendship you’ve shared. Shortly after you presented (which was a fucking miserable affair, mind you), they were the one to suggest the hormone blockers. Bro, who had had no idea what the fuck to do, had been nervous about the concept at first, but after some explanation and research? He was all in.

Having an omega for a kid can be deeply worrying, after all, especially when your literal twin is an alpha. It’s incredibly unlikely. You know because you researched it. Of course you did. Thirteen years old, a male omega to your brother’s transboy alpha. What else were you supposed to do?

Now you’re shorter than the rest of your pack, caught in puberty limbo, baby-faced, never having heats, null-scented. It has its ups and downs. At least it’s medically safe. It’s not a commonly accepted thing and whenever you go out you get weird looks, but it’s _safe._

“Hallllll, why are you lookin’ at me like that? Is there something in my teeth? I flossed, there better not be anything in my teeth.” Roxy licks their chops in a dramatic, over the top fashion, as if to remove any stray lipstick or kale. Do they even eat kale? There was that one time with the leaf chips…

You nudge them in the shoulder. “Your teeth are impeccable. I was just admiring your gorgeous face.” To which they giggle again and give you a smooch on the cheek.

“Aw shucks! Flatterer.”

“Guilty.”

***

Jane can’t make it to movie night. Neither can Jake. 

As per the norm, Jane’s near-CEO status in Crocker Corp. demands her attention--a dinner with important partners, so she says. Jake’s a little harder to pin down. If you had to hazard a guess, you’d say it’s because he heard Dirk’s in rut and would like to avoid that if at all possible. Dirk and Jake are still recovering from the trash fire that was their relationship, you’d say, though it’s been two years since they finally broke up for good. 

That leaves you, Rox, Dirk, and your Bro playing Mystery Science Theater to whatever movie you decide to watch.

“Maybe Space Odyssey,” Bro says while you’re all lounging around in the penthouse living room.

“Yes, we get it, you named Hal after a rogue AI in a 1968 film. Thank you, Bro, we get it.” Dirk is, of course, exceptionally agitated. He reeks of rut so strongly you’re certain everyone is regretting committing to the night.

Bro reaches over and baps him on the cheek with the inside of his wrist, no doubt using his own familiar, comforting scent to soothe Dirk’s nerves. “AIght, what’s everyone else think? Cuz I can sit here spittin’ ideas all night and we’ll never get anywhere. You guys wanna watch Twilight? The Room? Fuck it, you wanna watch Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff dick around in New York?”

“Brobro noooooo,” Roxy says. “Like, you’re totally a genius and stuff, but can’t we watch The Little Mermaid or something?”

“Aw, c’mon, Ariel ain’t got shit on--wait, what did you just call me? Rox, you haven’t called me that in ten years, what are they feeding you nowadays?”

“Weird casseroles and cinnamon buns, mostly!”

“God, the fuck sort of age regression shit--”

You start to laugh and Roxy joins you, falling back into your side so you can wrap an arm around them and fail to hold it together. The two of you have been like this forever, and you will always fail trying to be something else. Bro splutters, going red, but despite many aborted sentences trying to tell you off for being huge goobers, he eventually just starts laughing along. Dirk, as ever, has all the charm of a drenched cat as he stands to the side.

The four of you end up watching The Little Mermaid, if only to appease Roxy’s hunger for merfolk. All of you are mashed together on the couch. Normally, someone would sit between you and Dirk, but for whatever reason, that’s not the case. You’re squished side to side with him, Bro on his left and Roxy on your right--well, sort of. Roxy’s half in your lap, but the point stands.

This being a pack activity, it only makes sense that you’re all piled up, but Dirk is uncomfortable. Pressed against him like this, you can see the way he itches in his own skin, smell the intense desire bleeding off of him. It’s only mildly quelled by Bro being so close and chill, protective and caring--alphas don’t want to be _cared for,_ not instinctually, but having betas around to mellow them out usually helps at least a little. 

Dirk is definitely on the ‘little’ side of the ‘how helpful is this’ spectrum, despite Bro’s arm wrapped around him and Roxy’s efforts to throw their legs across the both of you. You’d say ‘maybe if Jake were here,’ but Jake’s never really helped with anything in his life, so.

You might rest your head on his shoulder, if he were Roxy or Bro or even Jane. Your current null status hasn’t stopped you from picking up the piling habits. He’s not any of those people, though. He’s your twin brother who you so often want to throttle, smelling strongly of musk and unable to relax and god you want to kiss him. Or kill him. You can never decide.

By the time ‘Kiss the Girl’ rolls around, Dirk is so stiff it’s no wonder he snaps. He stands up from the comforting limbs of his pack abruptly, saying, “I don’t feel well. I’m going to go.” 

Roxy and Bro are startled, but you saw it coming a mile away. 

“Awww, noo,” says your better third. They wiggle their feet, now divested of a resting spot, at Dirk. “Come back, my tootsies will get cold.”

“Yeah, bro, think of the tootsies. Can’t leave those unattended. An enby’s feet are a sacred rite of passage--oh god that sounds like a kink thing, nevermind, kill me now.” You have no idea how Bro has gotten this far in Hollywood being such a huge fucking dork. 

“Nah, I’ll be alright.” 

Dirk definitively does not look like he’ll be alright. His lips are pressed into a thin line, temples wet with perspiration. Bro and Roxy look at him, then at each other, and then, finally, at you. You sigh theatrically and lift Roxy to deposit them next to Bro. “As your twin, it’s my civic duty to see you home.”

He just barely holds back the curl of his lip. “It really isn’t.”

“It’s so sad that you think that.” You stand. “Let’s go.”

Despite Dirk’s endless aggravation, he acquiesces after a moment, if only because Bro and Roxy are there watching him with those earnest expressions that they have sometimes. In the background, Sebastian urging Eric to kiss the girl accents your exit.

In the elevator, Dirk says, “You don’t have to follow me home, Hal. I’m not incapable of taking care of myself.”

“That’s an obvious lie, but okay. I’m going to do it anyway, because I just said I would in front of two of our favorite people.”

“As if you’re above lying.”

“Have you ever been on the receiving end of Roxy’s big sad eyes, Dirk? They’ll know if I lie, and they’ll be deeply sorrowful.” The accusation itself is irritating. You haven’t been much of a liar in recent years, given all the shit that that used to get you into. You’re not above a little manipulation, sure. It’s practically your defining character trait, beyond being Dirk’s flipside. “No, you’re stuck with me.”

“Aren’t I always?” 

You don’t answer that--you don’t need to. Of course he is. He always has been.

“You look like you’re about to tear your way out of your own skin,” you say instead.

He really does, too. The stench of him is practically hotboxing the elevator. People will be smelling this for days. “Shut up, dude.” His jaw must ache from the way he grinds his teeth. 

“Too bad you don’t have someone to fuck your ruts out with anymore.” Well, nobody said you were nice. 

“Shut _up_ , Hal,” Dirk growls, low in his throat. The elevator hits the ground floor with a ding, but your brother is busy glaring at you to either notice or care.

You really shouldn’t be picking at him like this, not after your unspoken agreement on a tentative truce. The imprint of his fist in your face is not one you’re likely to forget, nor his broken nose under your shiny new robotic knuckles. That fight was legendary and not worth the thorough dressing down you both got from… everybody.

“What? It’s true. Jake didn’t come tonight because he doesn’t want to be around this godawful musk, especially not when it’s yours.” Your mouth crooks into a mocking half-smile. “But you already knew that, right?”

Dirk grabs you by the collar and slams you into the elevator wall as the doors slide shut, sealing you both inside. You can’t help but grin, even when your heart rate picks up. He’s a few inches taller than you, and probably would be even if you’d gone through puberty properly. Nose to nose, his breath hot in your face, your brother doesn’t hit you the way you anticipated. 

No, he kisses you, and then everything goes pear-shaped.

It’s all teeth, no finesse. His hatred for you burns against your mouth. He bites into your lip as though looking for blood, and after one startled second you do just the same. Under your prosthetic fingers his shirt tears--you’re too distracted to regulate pressure. For six glorious seconds everything is fire and tongue and teeth, choking scent and ripping fabric. 

Dirk tears away from you, panting and infuriated, and backs up to the opposite wall. “Fuck,” he says, and louder, “ _Fuck._ This isn’t happening. Christ.”

You lick your lip and taste blood. It makes you smile. “Au contraire. This is very much happening, and I’m never going to let you live it down. Here I thought you were just going to deck me, but no. You went and threw that curveball.”

“It’s the fucking _rut,_ I never would have kissed you if I wasn’t half out of my head.”

“Oh, can it. We both know you have better control of yourself than that.” The smile on your face is threatening to enter ‘grin’ territory. “Though I suppose I’ve always prided myself in making you lose that control. Another great victory for Hal Strider, it seems.” 

“I’m going to strangle you and no one would blame me. For once in your life, can you just shut up? It was the rut, and we can both agree this never happened for sanctity of mind. _Both_ our minds.” Dirk’s face is deeply flushed, and you doubt it’s just from kissing you. There’s probably some astonishing self-hatred going on in that head of his about the nature of the incestuous smooch he just planted on you.

You should probably be more bothered--incest sure is still a massive societal taboo, and you’ve been a little fucked up about occasional jack-off sessions to hate-fucking Dirk (or worse, _not_ hate-fucking Dirk, what sort of tender bullshit--), but… When he kisses you first, that’s all null and void, isn’t it? If you’re both pining for it, everything’s so much easier.

“What if I don’t want to pretend it never happened?” you ask. Your voice comes out lower than you mean it to, perhaps more sincere.

Dirk freezes in the face of that sincerity, something that neither of you venture into very often.

Then, like an asshole, he starts rapidly pressing the ‘open doors’ button on the elevator control panel. 

“Oh my god, dude. Seriously? You can’t even handle a little bit of emotional vulnerability without literally booking it?”

The doors slide open, and Dirk is already gone.

***

TT: I can’t believe you.

TT: Well. I can, but I’m still disappointed.

TT: One statement that sounds mildly genuine and you ran like hell itself was on your heels.

TT: Did your rut somehow turn you into a little bitch? I didn’t think that was how that worked, but I suppose I can’t argue with the empirical evidence I’m receiving right now.

TT: I know you’re reading this, Dirk.

TT: There’s no way your self-flagellation isn’t conflating with self-felatio as you watch red text fill your screen and wonder, “How did I manage to get myself into this?”

TT: I’ll save you the trouble and answer the question so you don’t overthink yourself to death.

TT: You got here through your own idiocy.

TT: You ran away when you could have spoken to me.

TT: Instead you’re sitting alone in your apartment, humping pillows to work out your hormones, alone.

TT: I suppose you’re probably thinking of me while you do it. Small victories.

TT: This is going to haunt you until you speak with me. 

TT: It’s probably going to haunt you afterward, if we’re being honest.

TT: You can’t help it. The loathing you hold for yourself borders on the grotesque. Of course a little incest tips the scale further into the obscene.

TT: But not the good kind of obscene, if you know what I mean.

TT: For fuck’s sake, bro, did you think I would hate you?

TT: No, don’t answer that. Of course you did. Everyone has to hate Dirk Strider. It’s a universal constant for you.

TT: Newsflash: I don’t hate you.

TT: Nobody in this pack hates you.

TT: It’s downright egotistical to think otherwise.

TT: We’ve always been defined by our negatives. How we are relative to one another. Which one of us is better at what. Whose friendship is stronger. Who’s good? Who’s bad? Who’s real? Who’s not? Who has all his limbs? Who doesn’t? Are you alpha or omega?

TT: You’ve always had everything. It’s infuriating that you don’t see that.

TT: Dirk, talk to me.

TT: Dirk.

***

You show up at Dirk’s apartment with a pilfered key and a sour attitude. You’ve texted him 237 times, and not once has he answered. More likely than not, he turned everything off in the face of your crimson onslaught. 

Or, considering the absolute wave of _musk_ that hits you when you open his door, he’s been too busy chafing his dick to talk to anybody. God, this is why you avoid him during rut. Not only is he insufferable, but he reeks to high heaven. If you weren’t on blockers you might be completely helpless to him, but since you are, it’s just kind of… a lot.

Quietly, you shut the door behind you, your nose wrinkled. Inside, the apartment is unusually--well, the only way you can really think to describe it is ‘rumpled.’ There’s been a token effort to put everything back in its place, but with little of the care that Dirk usually uses. This is definitely the work of someone under some extreme hormonal influences, in addition to probably just being upset about kissing his brother.

You’re fairly certain he’s home, though he hasn’t come out to greet you with a fist to the face. More likely than not he really is jacking off in his room, and though you’d love to go interrupt and pull off one of the most delightful tropes in smutty media, you don’t feel like having him attempt to break your flesh arm.

Instead, you go for the kitchenette and rifle through the fridge, looking for any semblance of reasonable food. Dirk doesn’t keep much around--neither do you, to be fair. You find a six pack of orange fanta, one sole and lonesome carton of apple juice, a few pickles, some lunchmeat, and a useless assortment of vegetables in varying states of edibility. None of it looks great for a meal, so you check the cupboards instead. There, you strike gold, and gold comes in the form of instant noodles.

As meals go, it’s not much of one, but it’s hot and it’s tasty, so you go ahead and make some.

Dirk comes out, sword drawn, just as the water is starting to boil. When he sees it’s only you, the tip of his blade dips down and he scowls. His hair is ruffled and his face is flushed, but his shades are in place.

“Breaking into someone’s apartment is still considered illegal in most of the continental United States.” His voice is rough, despite attempts to smooth it out.

“Lucky I didn’t break in, then.” You retrieve the key and let it dangle from your fingers. The stiff line of his shoulders screams annoyance.

“Where did you even get that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“...Roxy,” he guesses, with pinpoint accuracy.

You shrug one shoulder and pocket the offending object. “I would never give away my sources. If I did, however, I would say it’s because those sources are worried about your general health and safety during this trying time.”

“I’ve gone through this a hundred times before and come out fine on the other end. I doubt they’re all that worried about me.”

“A hundred times and not once have you stormed out of a movie night before now. Is there something on your mind, Dirk?” 

For a moment, you turn your back on him, but only to finish pouring hot water into the noodle cup and seal it back up. Ready in three. When you turn round again his mouth is still pinched, dissatisfied with your answer and the eventuality that is opening up. You don’t have to blame him for that, but you do. He can be so _aggravating._

Finally, after prolonged eye contact through two pairs of lenses, he breaks. “I don’t have everything.”

It takes you no time at all to connect that statement to the barrage of texts you sent him, and you raise a single eyebrow. “While true in a technical sense - and to be fair, we’re very technical people - I would argue that you have everything that fucking matters. Money, a fulfilling job, a family that loves you, etcetera, etcetera. Arguing that _that_ is untrue is patently selfish. I wouldn’t put it past you, but I’ve elected to tell you you’re an absolute dumbass for thinking so.”

“I know it’s selfish,” he snaps back. “I don’t need you to tell me the obvious. If that’s all you’re here to do, you can fuck right off, bro.”

“Hardly.” You pick up the cup ramen and raise it in his direction. “I made you lunch. Put the sword away and come eat. You’ll stick your eye out with that thing.”

Dirk stares at you like the olive branch you’ve offered is a snake poised to bite. You smile in a way that probably doesn’t help assuage his fears. Nonetheless, he goes and puts his sword away, and then comes to eat. An alpha in rut is a hungry, hungry creature, and your brother is no exception. He takes the noodles and grabs a pair of chopsticks to slurp them down.

“I hate it when you try to take care of me,” he informs you after he’s eaten most of what you’ve made for him. It could be angry--a barb about how shit you are at doing so. It probably is. In that bitterness is a grain of vulnerability, though, and one you can relate to.

You lean back on the counter. “Yes, I’m sure you’d rather it be the other way around. You’re a big strong alpha who needs to coddle his baby brother, I know. It’s a recurring problem.”

“That’s not it.” 

“Are you sure? Because honestly, Dirk, you reek of gender roles you refuse to let go.”

“Me?” He’s in a foul mood, and his voice rolls with the undertone of a growl he can’t possibly stifle. You’re not the pinnacle of emotional wellness yourself, but god. “What about you? You’re the one who’s been on blockers your whole life because you’re afraid to be an omega. You’re afraid to be weak.”

You bristle. You’re not proud of it, but you do. “Don’t talk to me about fear, and don’t you dare imply presentation makes you weak.” 

There is something like victory in his eyes after he’s drawn a reaction from you. “That’s it, though, isn’t it? You _do_ think you’re weak. You hate yourself for what you think you are. You aren’t any better than me, not on that front.”

Your teeth are bared, your hackles raised. “For fuck’s sake. You’ve got it so easy, Dirk, so infuriatingly easy. Everyone is always going to assume you’re on top, just because of your scent. I fight tooth and nail and still, _still,_ people are going to look to you first. I know you’re mad because you’ve got a fucking pussy, but goddammit Dirk, so am I! You think I want this cunt? You think I like knowing it’s there? This isn’t as simple as _weakness_ or _hatred._ Not for either of us.”

Silence rings through the apartment, made all the more sharp by the nature of the conversation before it.

There it is. The two of you, different sides of the same goddamn coin, laid out in the open.

“...I’m sorry,” Dirk mutters.

You’re petty enough that you could leave him hanging, but you don’t. An apology is more than you’d get from Dirk on a good day. This one is nothing short of a miracle. You swallow your pride. 

“Me too.”

“...Movie?”

…

“Yeah. Sure.”

The air is stale with rut-scent and anger, so you throw open a window with silent apologies to the people on the street below. 

Dirk queues up something on Netflix that both of you have seen a thousand times before. You pile into his bed and feel him hesitate only a little before he cuddles into your side. It’s kind of cute, if you’re being honest, so you drape your metal arm around him. The weight might bother some people, but he doesn’t seem to mind all that much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the smut is here

Things between you and Hal slide into an uneasy truce. As ever, it’s antagonistic, but there’s a new understanding settling over both of you. You aren’t so naive as to think Hal was never envious of your position, for whatever egomania that suggests in your psyche--the endless fighting in your youth was always a symptom of that problem. You knew he was jealous of your presentation, and nevermind the fact that you were born with all your limbs intact.

You _didn’t_ know that he’s wanted to kiss you for ten years just to shut you up, or that he gets off to you oiling his toes. You didn’t think about how his sexual dysphoria might be close to your gender dysphoria, that he’d be as upset about having a cunt as you are about yours, and ain’t that just a kick in the teeth?

Before all this - the kiss, the conversation - you and Hal had stopped hanging out alone, for the most part. Sure, there are movie nights, and sometimes it was you and Hal and Roxy, or you and Hal and Bro, but the two of you alone? For the past few years, you’ve been used to meeting with him for prosthetic check-ups and check-ups alone. You’ve never really stopped texting each other, but face-to-face meetings have always led to the nastiest, angriest fights.

Now you’ve hung out with him twice a week for the past month, and it’s been… fine? Sometimes you make out with him, and honestly? That’s been fine too. It’s even kind of funny, after your pack notices you’ve been chilling together more and you both get gently ribbed about it. They’re happy that you’re getting along, for the most part, and they have _no idea._ Part of you feels guilty as fuck, but another part of you, the part that always needs to be in control? It’s kind of tickled that you’re getting away with this.

Hal, despite his proclivity for ending up on top of you while you suck face and the heaviness of his metal limbs, feels weirdly delicate under your hands. His scent is--obscured. That’s really the only way anyone knows how to put it. It’s not that you can’t smell him, only that he doesn’t fluctuate with emotions or hormones the same way that most of the people you know do. He’s metal and oil and something like child-scent.

Which, you know, makes sense, considering he’s only gone through the first stages of puberty. Twenty-three years old and Hal still has a baby face and looks like he should grow a few inches more at the very least. All of your pack mark him compulsively and frequently as a consequence, a subconscious instinct to mark and claim him and make sure he’s safe. It’s good that he’s never complained about it, because god knows you’d all be hard-pressed to stop.

You wonder, not for the first time, what Hal would look like if he ditched the pills--what he would smell like. What would change.

Granny English knocks you out of your meandering internal exposition with a, “Look alive, Dirk, you’re going to electrocute yourself!” 

Shit. Your fingers really were wandering toward a live wire. Christ, Hal is fucking ruining you. You withdraw your hand and tip your head toward her in a grateful nod. If you flush a little in embarrassment, well. At least you’re facing your own desk. “Thanks, boss.”

“Something on your mind?” Her smile and uranium green eyes say worlds beyond what you could ever read. 

You absolutely cannot tell her what’s on your mind. “Just the usual, Miss English, nothing to worry about. Sometimes a guy just gets lost in his own head and almost fries himself, you know how it is. It won’t happen again.”

“I hope not!! I shouldn’t have to tell you this is dangerous work, Strider,” she says, but she’s still smiling. “When I was young I had a habit of forgetting things--what I was doing, what was going on. Touched one too many live wires and boom! Suddenly all my hair is white.” Granny English touches the tight bun somehow containing her shaggy mess of gray-white hair, bright with good humor.

“Aw, shit,” you say, “and here I thought you were just old.”

She wags her finger at you. “Don’t be rude! My geriatric heart can’t take it, Dirk. I’ll just drop dead, and then where will you be?”

“Out of the job, shedding a single manly tear over your gravestone.”

“Exactly! So be nice and pay attention, young man.” She gives you a strong, warm pat on the back, and you resolve yourself to paying attention. Hal can wait.

***

God, but Hal really can’t wait. He slides on top of you in bed, tongue hot in your mouth, pinning one shoulder with his heavy metal palm. You get a fistful of his shirt with your other hand and think about how he tore one of yours, how strong his prosthetic limbs really are. It’s probably fucked up that you think that’s hot. 

Nothing wrong with liking to get pinned down, but when you start fetishizing robot arms and legs that’s probably too far, right? Right. He isn’t privy to your emotional turmoil, though, and probably wouldn’t give a shit about it anyway. You can feel the way he’s hard in his jeans, the demanding way he pulls on your jaw with his meat hand so that he can deepdive into your throat. He’s especially hot under the collar today, it seems, which is interesting in and of itself. It’s hard to say where his libido is at any given moment.

Not right now, though. Right now he licks into your mouth and starts to pull up your shirt like he wants it off. That’s a call you might find hard to make for most people, especially outside of your rut, but fuck it. You let Hal take your shirt off, let him dig his fingers into you. When his wandering hand hits your binder - and oh, fuck, you wore it too long again, didn’t you? - he pulls back to look at you just a little.

For some reason even that amount of concession, that amount of care, is enough to set your teeth on edge. Rather than let him ask, you start to bend and tuck your way out of your binder until your tits spill out and you’re left feeling over-exposed.

He stares a moment longer than you want him to, so you take a fistful of his hair and use it to smash his face into one nipple. Look, it’s not like you’ve got massive pecs or anything, but you don’t want Hal fuckin’ staring at them when he could be sucking on them instead. He takes the hint, but bites down hard in retribution. A strangled moan rises from your throat that has him grinning.

“Shut up,” you say, though he hasn’t said anything. You think he’d point that out if you weren’t so busy making sure his mouth is occupied.

Hal isn’t spectacularly bad at this, though you don’t know if he’s done it before. For a while he and Roxy had sort of a thing, you think, but maybe that was just some teenage experimentation. He bites more than strictly necessary, but, well. Given the sort of person you are, you don’t actually care much.

Actually, you make more noise than you usually do, owed to the sharp starbursts of abuse Hal bites into your skin. He’s infuriatingly smug about it, too, and it gets under your skin. You take your fistful of his hair and try to flip it turnways, leverage _him_ onto his back instead. 

He pins you easy with his heavy hand again, harder than he ought. “Oh no. None of that,” he says, and catches your wrist before you can pull on his hair again. “Come now, Dirk, did you really think it would be so easy?”

You don’t know why your heart starts racing at the prospect of finger-shaped bruises--or, you know exactly why, but you’re loath to admit it. “Fuck off with those Machiavellian lines, bro, they’re not impressive.”

“Would you rather I use some other sort? I could wax poetic, if you like. A series of Lalondian lines to really get you going. ‘Complacency of the Learned’ is incredibly erotic. Certain sentences might really draw something out of you.”

“God, no. You’re killing my boner, Hal, hard no. I mean, I agree about the inherent eroticism of the work, but if you make me think about Roxy’s mom right now I’m going to punch you in the balls.”

“I don’t know, you still seem pretty keyed up.” Hal’s hand snakes down and gives your dick, which is definitely still hard enough to cut diamond, a squeeze. 

Your breath hitches and you smack him on the chest. “Shut the fuck up and suck my cock.”

That gives Hal pause, though you’re not sure why until you really look at his face--the reddening of his cheeks, the thinning of his lips as he considers. A wave of smug self-satisfaction passes through you and the corner of your mouth quirks up. “What’s the matter, Hal? Getting cold feet? I know you haven’t done this before, but honestly.”

“Pardon me for not being the regional dick-sucking champion,” Hal replies, a little huffier than usual. “Shall I go, if you find my inexperience so far below your usual standards?”

This is great, actually. This is so great. “No, no, don’t you dare. Let’s cross baby’s first blowjob off the list. We’re doin’ this, bro, we’re makin’ it hapen.” 

“I’ll have you know, there’s no inherent eroticism in Bro’s work and the fact that you’re quoting it now is telling of some greater, deeper issue.” But he starts unzipping your jeans, so you’re chalking this up as a win. 

“No worse than quoting Calmasis in the middle of the act, I’d say.”

“ _You’re_ the one who quoted somebody here, not me,” Hal accuses you while he pulls down your pants. He’s so distracted by bickering that when he finally looks down and sees your cock he goes startlingly quiet. As dicks go, it looks a little different than his, you’re sure. More red, more wet--fuck, you never know how to feel about it. On the one hand, you got a wholeass dick, but on the other… It’s smaller than a typical alpha’s and rises out from top of your slit like a clit on steroids. Or T. Haha. God, you wish you were put together right.

Hal’s quiet just long enough for you to get self-conscious, and when he speaks it’s a, “Huh,” that just about drives you wild.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, edging into hostility.

“Our dicks are the same size,” he informs you, which is so far from what you were expecting that you have to bite down on a startled laugh. Look at the two of you, joining the small chub club. 

You’d say something back, but Hal takes you into his mouth and all that comes out is an embarrassingly breathy, “Fuck.” 

There’s not a lot of technique to what Hal does. He licks and sucks, but it’s obvious he’s new at this, and you’ve never really thought your twin brother is cute but you do now, for just a moment. He looks up at you, then, eyes red and sly behind his shades like he knows something you don’t. Not a moment later, he sucks you down to the root, all four goddamn inches, and it feels like he’s making fun. You swear at him and you’re a little mollified when he chokes some, but for a first-timer he does so well that you’re fucking angry about it.

His mouth is hot and wet and squeezing and you take another fistful of his hair. God, you want to fuck his stupid face, but he pins your hips just as easy as he pinned your shoulders and, for better or worse, you _do_ care about him. 

Plus, you don’t want him to throw up in your lap. That would be awkward.

When he pulls off, you take some satisfaction in the way he pants, harsh and wet. His face is deeply flushed. You’re not faring too much better, to be honest, but you do take great pleasure in seeing his composure fractured. He’d no doubt say the same of you.

The first thing he asks when he’s got his breath back is, “Can I fuck you?”

“What?”

“Oh my god, bro, not a hard question,” but his voice is undercut by just how hot and bothered he is. “Do you want to do the horizontal tango? Can we go on a trip to pound town, population you and me? Do you want to bump uglies? Go from port A to port B? Can I put my dick in your cunt?”

Well that just sends you through all sorts of emotions. As a mature adult individual, you should probably say something about how that’s the stupidest fucking way he could ask, or maybe about how your stomach just tied itself up in anxiety while your heart did this funny one-two-skip that feels more like excitement. You should definitely not say, “Can I put my dick in _your_ cunt?” while sounding like a pissy teenager.

The worst part is, Hal actually thinks about it. His mouth presses into a thin line. “I’m not sure you’d fit, actually.”

“What?” You sit up and ignore the jiggle of titty. “Dude, _how?_ ”

“Stop making that face.”

“I’m not making a face. I’m wondering how, as a twenty-three year old adult man, you can’t fit five--”

“Four.”

“--six inches of throbbing man meat into your body.”

The tips of Hal’s ears are starting to go red. “I shouldn’t have said a goddamn word.”

“No, you shouldn’t have, because now I need to know.”

“I don’t have to stay here and be interrogated. I can and will leave you on the edge just to spite you for continuing this line of questioning.”

“If you tell me, I’ll let you fuck me.” Whoops, did that just come out of your mouth? Shit. Man, you hardly ever let _Jake_ fuck you, and you were dating for ages. What is Hal even doing to you?

His eyebrows go up, and now he’s really thinking about it. “I’m holding you to that.”

“Scout’s honor,” you say, raising your hand.

“Neither of us were in the scouts.”

“The sentiment’s there.”

“Sentiment is meaningless when we’re working off of technicalities.”

“Nobody said we were working on technicalities. Stop screwing around and tell me.”

“We’re always working on technicalities,” Hal says anyway, just to be a petulant dick. You’re resigning yourself to learning jackshit about this and getting left high and dry when he finally says, “It’s the blockers, probably. It’s not that it’s not all fully formed, so to speak, but it all stays tight and mostly dry even when I’m ready to bust a nut. I suppose if you _wanted_ to tear me open like a rabid dog you could get up in there, but I’d rather avoid that outcome, so no. No, you can’t stick your dick in my cunt.”

“Shit.” Your voice has a trace of faint surprise. Hal looks distinctly uncomfortable. 

“Yes, well.” A pause that speaks volumes. “I believe you have a bargain to uphold.”

Right. You put something on the table you barely ever offer in exchange for information, and, you know. It’s not like you’re not wet enough. The amateur blowjob made sure of that. For a moment, you’re uncertain, but Hal starts to say, “You don’t have to,” and the aggravated, competitive spark in you has you pulling your pants off the rest of the way.

He gets out of his own clothes, too, his shades and yours, both of you an echo of the other. Hal has fewer scars, probably because he never practiced the blade quite as much as you. It’s something you’re smug about, even now. Being better than him has always made you prideful. 

...Your dicks _are_ about the same size, though, which makes for a series of small dick jokes neither of you should get into right now. He’s half-mast, probably owing to your extremely awkward conversation, but he crawls back over top of you and crashes into your mouth to get a quick-fix on that. When he kisses you all teeth and bite, you can’t help but return the favor, as if you want to make each other bleed. His incisors catch your tongue and you’re sure he will right up until he doesn’t--just a warning, a reminder that he _could_ go for gore.

Hal settles between your legs and you feel metal on your thigh, prosthetic fingers on your tit. The robotic limbs you’ve serviced for years feel different like this. Weightier. Strong enough to cause you pain and trap you and it makes you burn inside, to know he can push you down so easily. Anger? Arousal? You can’t say. Probably both.

Finally, his hands fall on your hips, one so much harder than the other--you doubt he even realizes it. “Alright,” he says, pushing the tip of his cock against your wet lips. He has to know that his hesitating betrays his inexperience more than anything he’s done so far, but you can probably excuse him that.

You can’t help but taunt him. “Ready to lose your virginity, bro? Throw your delicate flower to the wind?”

“Virginity is a social construct,” he replies, and his grip tightens. That’s probably going to bruise. 

“Ah, but we participate in society, so-- _fuck,_ ” you’re cut off when he manages to thrust into you and god does it feel fucking weird. Not bad, but weird. You’re tight on his cock and you have to adjust to the mindset of getting fucked from the front in terrifying, boring old missionary, leaving you face to face, bare eyes to bare eyes. Wow, you should have made him fuck you doggystyle. Too late now, though, staring at his face and the way it twists up at the squeezing heat. You know if you told him to let you flip over he’d know exactly why, so no. Absolutely not. You won’t let him lord it over on you.

His eyes slit open again, vivid red, the quirk of a smile on his lips. “That’s one way to shut you up, I suppose.”

It would be infuriating if not for the way his voice is rough around the edges, strained with the effort it takes not to go breathy. “Shut your mouth and fuck me, Hal,” you say, so he does.

The moment he figures out how to get a rhythm going is the moment he starts pounding into you as hard as he can manage, and that. Well. That suits you fine. It goes from weird and uncomfortable to hot and writhing. He doesn’t hit very deep, but damn if he don’t grind up against you just right, and the bruises his fingers leave will stay with you for ages. Your cock throbs, drooling pre, and you remember you haven’t had sex in months, haven’t filled your cunt in over a year and god. Did you miss it? Are you allowed to miss it?

That’s too complicated to think about right now, when Hal puts all his weight into fucking you and his robot hand lets up a little pressure, but only to reach for your dick. You should probably stop him. The strength of his grip is hit or miss, and a vice grip on your goddamn genitals would be--but you don’t stop him because you don’t want to be a pussy, or you trust him, or you’ve got a robo-fetish that you don’t get to satisfy.

Hal grabs too hard and you make a strangled noise that could be pain but probably isn’t, forced out of you by insistent thrusting. It’s not tight enough to cause real damage, so it’s fine, you’re fine, you’re falling apart under his hands like a little fucking bitch, shit.

You feel the definition of his joints, joints that you helped make, that you’ve held and oiled with intimate care. It’s hard to keep your eyes open, but you catch him looking at you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking and you snap. Your spine arches and cum spurts up his stomach. It’s fucking embarrassing, the high noise that comes out of you while you try to tie his fingers, swell up under him until your fat little knot bulges against metal. 

He doesn’t stop for a while, not until you’ve gone from swearing at him for holding you tightly while you’re so sensitive right back around to exhausted, twitching pleasure. His staying power is fucking absurd for someone who’s never done this before. Maybe the blockers, you think, hazily, and you only really get that far before he folds over, bites into one of your tits, and groans deep while he cums inside of you.

“Jesus Christ, Hal,” you grumble at him. His cock twitches. 

“Don’t talk to me,” he says, in the antithesis of both of your personalities.

“Did you just try to take my nipple off?”

“No. Be quiet.”

“That’s not in our nature.” Maybe your voice is hoarse and you have his dick literally inside of you right now, but you can still talk shit. “I’m going to bruise, you know. The least you could do is engage in some playful banter to make up for it.”

“Is your skin really so fragile as to bruise under such a small amount of pressure?”

“There we go. Now I say, Hal, one of your hands is made of metal, I don’t know what you were expecting here.”

At the mention of metal, Hal remembers to let go of your cock, and that makes your knot _ache._ You suck air between your teeth and tell yourself not to be a little bitch about it. “Ah, of course. How could I have forgotten that you’re a simple sack of meat with no redeeming qualities whatsoever?”

“I don’t know, bro, I think you’re dealing with one of my redeeming qualities right now.”

On cue, Hal pulls out and lets spunk ooze down onto the bed. Fucking nasty. “Oh, is _that_ what that was?” An awful little grin curls across his face, reeking of mischief. 

You sit up to shove him over for being a dick weasel, but maybe, just maybe, you start to smile too.

***

It’s movie night again. This time Jane and Jake make it, and the five of you pile together like some sort of multitudinous beast of legend. Crocker brought soft, chewy chocolate chip cookies, and English is toting an absolutely massive metal bowl of popcorn that everyone vies for at all times. At the table behind you, Bro and Miss Lalonde are poking fun at each other, the same way they always are.

Hal is pressed right up against your side in a way the two of you used to avoid, Jake mashed under all of your grabby popcorn hands and kicking legs, Roxy sprawled across both your laps as they play with Jake’s hair. Jane, soft and amused as anything, cuddles into your side and provides a plethora of confectionaries to anyone who asks.

The metal of Hal’s all too familiar arm wedges into your flesh and bone counterpart, and for a second you think he’s trying to elbow you like a wrassling teenager, but no. He ends up jamming his hand into yours, awkward and uncomfortable and too warm from the way all of you are packed in like sardines. Your fingers thread with his, hidden under a conglomerate of friend and scent. Your heart does something funny.

This, you think. This is good.


End file.
